


We Can't Change Our Course, Our Fate's Sealed Long Ago

by ambitiousbutrubbish



Series: Sing While We Go Up in Flames [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Asexual Character, Asexual Enjolras, Gen, M/M, Reincarnation, Ugly!Grantaire, although technically it's more a Past Lives AU but whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2709947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitiousbutrubbish/pseuds/ambitiousbutrubbish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Enjolras startles awake, there’s a spring digging painfully into his back and he feels profoundly <i>wrong</i>, as if he is not where he should be. And not because he’s woken up from a night in a holding cell (that is totally consistent with his life so far). He lies there for a moment, staring at the blank, white ceiling, and thinks on his dream. </p><p>Only, not a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can't Change Our Course, Our Fate's Sealed Long Ago

**Author's Note:**

> While this is technically a sequel to YtORIS (This Coward’s Melee), you do not have to read that first. Basically, as a quick run-down, it’s just a canon-era look at e/R and it displays a pretty unhealthy obsession and adoration and you only have to read the Brick or anything about Grantaire in the novel online to get the gist of it if you don’t want to read more about unhealthy relationships that end in death. It’s a prequel only in name, and you do not have to read it to understand this. It is referenced here occasionally, but only because this is a reincarnation AU, and so past lives are talked about. The e/R here is much safer, and much more balanced, and pretty much completely healthy; Grantaire just pines a lot, because he remembers way earlier.
> 
> Enjolras is 100% gold star asexual (and I’m 50/50 on the aromantic thing too but I tend to lean more towards demiromantic, for my writing preferences at least). He never even kissed anyone before those two chaste kisses after Mabeuf’s death on the barricade. When they’re talking about him living alone and loving no one his only thought is of France. I will take this to the grave.
> 
> (Seriously though, as with all my ace!fics, if you have any questions about my portrayal of asexuality, please do not hesitate to contact me. It’s an issue very close to my heart)
> 
> Also forgive me for not including any details of Paris or France. I haven’t been in like...5 years.

He feels it all: despair, loss, failure.

Hopelessness.

He stands with the bodies of his friends around him, may as well be drowning in a sea of them, for he can not take a breath. That revolutionary air, that promise of a fresh and new tomorrow, he can not breath it in. It was never there at all. He has been sustaining himself of toxins and lies all his life, choking himself quickly and efficiently, to this early end.

His friends are dead. In the end, they had all known that it would come to death. Truthfully, they had known at the beginning, though they had continued to sing and to dance and dream of the future. 

There is no future.

The people did not rise. They heard the call, but they stayed alone in their houses, hid behind locked doors and boarded windows and allowed the injustice of the monarchy.

They had all known they were going to die, but they had believed it would be for something.

Standing alone, at the end of all things, Enjolras knows this to be a lie. 

When the National Guardsmen corner him inside the Musain, he throws away his weapon. He can not show them that they have won, will not give them the satisfaction of victory, and so he challenges them, dares them to take the final shot (hopes that they will take it soon). But they do not know him, for if they did, they would know that he would never go down without a fight, would never stand here unarmed and wait calmly for his death. They do not know that even if they don’t shoot him, he is already dead.

The people have not stirred.

A man in the corner jumps to his feet where he had been asleep at the table. He looks at Enjolras, and his eyes are aflame and clear, as he has never known them. The man declares himself for the Republic, for Enjolras, and strides over to take his place at his side.

Grantaire asks him “do you permit it?” and Enjolras smiles at him, taking his hand in his own, and from where they touch, Enjolras feels his blood boil and the heat of it lights his skin on fire, lights them both up, and the room, and the city in turn.

Grantaire has heard, and the people will follow. His friends, they have touched the heart of a cynic. There is nothing to stop their story, here and now, from touching others. Grantaire, with his hand in his, is living proof that their sacrifice is not in vain, that the people will remember this, and they will rise. Their united front here, their martyrdom, it is the best weapon that Enjolras could wield, and the only one that he would want to.

He feels it all: wonder, elation, joy.

Hope.

He feels all eight of the bullets pierce his body.

He looks down once more to see Grantaire - lonely, gentle, _revolutionary_ Grantaire - collapsed at his feet.

And then he dies.

\--------------------

When Enjolras startles awake, there’s a spring digging painfully into his back and he feels profoundly _wrong_ , as if he is not where he should be. And not because he’s woken up from a night in a holding cell (that is totally consistent with his life so far). He lies there for a moment, staring at the blank, white ceiling, and thinks on his dream. Only, not a dream. It’s jarring, to wake up and remember a life that you once lived, superimposed on top of the one you’re living now. Enjolras thinks that he should probably be more worried about it, but he grew up with Combeferre, and you don’t grow up with Combeferre without being aware of the supernatural, even if you don’t believe in it yourself. Combeferre has always believed in the things that couldn’t be explained enough for the both of them, and Enjolras is glad of it now. He never thought Combeferre strange for believing in ghosts and magic, even if he didn’t share his faith, and so it is easy for him to adjust his world view to include past lives without worrying about himself, either.

Enjolras isn’t surprised that Combeferre and Courfeyrac were with him in his dream, just as he isn’t surprised that they’re with him in the holding cell now; Courfeyrac curled up at his side, with one hand curled around his waist and his head tucked into his neck to stop himself tumbling off the small bed while he sleeps, and Combeferre sprawled out on the other, always claiming to be too tall to share the police station beds with anyone. Enjolras suspects that it is probably not correct police procedure to allow the three of them to share a cell, but they’ve been in this particular station enough that the policemen know them, and know that they give a lot less trouble when they’re allowed to stay together.

Enjolras isn’t really surprised about most of his friends being there, either. Feuilly, Bahorel, Jehan, Joly, Bossuet. Cosette and Musichetta, although neither girl had featured prominently in his dream. Even Marius, who he can hear patiently explaining to the police officer that he’s here to pay bail. Admittedly he’s not really friends with Marius, they’re more acquaintances, but Marius is close with Courfeyrac after the latter had offered him a place to stay when he was suddenly kicked out of his grandfather’s house with no warning, despite literally running into him on the street as a first meeting not two minutes before. Marius is also dating Cosette, who bonded almost immediately with Jehan after her chance meeting with Les Amis de l’ABC (over flowers, Cosette’s hair - which is long and straight enough to be fixed into any hairstyle - and radical leftist Christianity), and who comes to all their meetings. Like as not, he’s paying their bail with Cosette’s money. Enjolras doesn’t doubt that she’d come in herself, but she doesn’t like coming down to the precinct where she could chance upon Javert, an officer with an unhealthy fixation on her father.

His friends are all passionate and fiery. Faithful. Dedicated to their causes, both now and in the past. All except Grantaire. Grantaire does surprise him. He does not believe. That would not bother Enjolras so much if Grantaire was open to the idea of changing his mind, but he seems to hang around the fringes of every one of their meetings for the sole purpose of mocking them; their faith and their action. He calls out often and drunkenly when Enjolras talks, but not to question nor even truly to criticise. Grantaire is apathetic, convinced of their failure before they begin and maybe he is right, maybe everything they do will fall on deaf ears and none of it will mean anything in the long run. Maybe they will be forgotten, lost to the sands of time and conservatism, but that is no reason for them not to try. Nothing kills change and progress like apathy, and very little infuriates Enjolras more than Grantaire’s stubborn refusal to either engage constructively, be quiet and listen, or to simply leave, and take his mockery and his cynicism elsewhere. God knows, Grantaire’s ‘qualities’, are appreciated by far more people than Enjolras’ own idealism - cynicism seen as realistic, and idealism as a bit of a joke, a naivety - and he would have little trouble finding friends who share his views and would find Les Amis’ actions to be as pointless as he does. 

Enjolras thinks on what he knows of Grantaire. Frustration, anger, harsh rebukes (perhaps too harsh, but Enjolras has never known how to soften his words or guard is tongue) and the smell of alcohol. A gravelly voice, too often raised in needless conflict, and dull blue eyes that should be so much brighter. A friend, of course, when he is not drunk or disdainful of their politics; fun to be around and constantly offering good humour, or else Enjolras would not suffer his more nihilistic musings. A better friend of others within Les Amis, but a friend nonetheless. He can’t picture his face, but that is not unusual. Enjolras is terrible at remembering what people look like - it’s gotten him into trouble more than once when he hasn’t recognised police officers who have taken him in before out of uniform - but he has vague memories of women, and sometimes men, turning away from him wearing sneers, though that could easily be due to the stench of wine on his breath.

Yes, Grantaire being with him and his friends, both now and during that attempted revolution does surprise Enjolras, but he thinks of Grantaire and he gets a warm feeling in his chest nonetheless. Not unlike what he feels for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, for any of his friends, but hotter; less calming, less peaceful. In a way, it is more unpleasant, because it feels volatile, as if it could burst from his chest and set him ablaze, turn the both of them to ashes to be blown away by the wind. It is not arousal, for Enjolras has never felt arousal in his life - his blood races only for France, and for justice. It is not even attraction, at least not of the physical kind. Although perhaps intellectually, for the challenge Grantaire presents, the chance to prove him wrong and give him new hope, to make Grantaire _see_ that things will get better, that together they all can change even just a small part of the world.

Enjolras thinks of Grantaire and he sees the truth of him, the truth of his heart; that sad, forgotten idealist. No one turns so completely on something that they didn’t once believe in. And Enjolras knows that, when push comes to shove, Grantaire will rise with the rest of them. 

He declared himself for the Republic once, stood beside Enjolras when he could have fled with his life. Enjolras does not doubt that he will do it again, that Grantaire’s soul will be allowed to fly.

\--------------------

Enjolras has never believed in putting things off, but contrary to popular belief, he does know how to be considerate of other people’s feelings. He waits until he and Grantaire are alone before he confronts him. As it is, it takes nearly two weeks. It’s the first time that Enjolras has noticed that Grantaire takes great pains to never be alone with him, but in some small way he is grateful - it gives him time to sort his own feelings and memories out, what he knows of Grantaire in the past aligning with the man of the here and now.

In the end, Enjolras has to ask Grantaire to stay behind after a meeting. As they are leaving, Combeferre and Courfeyrac shoot him twin looks that tell him to be kind, and Enjolras had planned on it, had prepared a speech that would lead gently into all he wanted to say to Grantaire, but he looks at him, at the mess of his dark hair and his downturned eyes, the awkward shift of his shoes as he stands there in front of him looking for all the world a young child expecting to be chastised and Enjolras blurts out the first thing he can think to say.

“I dreamed of you.”

Grantaire looks up, startled, and his eyes are remarkably clear, but they dart quickly around his face before finally settling somewhere just over his shoulder, and his hands twist together, anxiously. “Was it a good dream?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras would expect his customary mocking at what could be considered an inappropriate conversation starter, but it isn’t there. Instead, there is hopefulness in his question, a note of longing, and for a moment Enjolras wants to cry that boastful, brash Grantaire could sound so timid and scared.

“No. We died.”

Grantaire’s eyes slip down to his shoes again, and Enjolras is sure at that moment that Grantaire knows what he’s talking about. He wonders how many of them know. How many of his friends had gravitated to him because they saw that man from his dream. That man in the past who had made those speeches and gathered a revolution to action. Were they disappointed with him, now? Do they see any of that Enjolras in him? He, who starts fights and gives speeches at protests that are designed to inflame the passions of the listeners to furore and who leaves overnight stays in holding cells with black eyes and bruised knuckles. Are they disappointed that instead of that student revolutionary with fire in his heart and ice in his veins they got a twenty-something with a big mouth and a quick temper who never even finished high school because eventually none of them would take him, his parents money be damned. He does not doubt that his friends love him, that that is why they stay regardless of anything else, but he can’t help but wonder if he’s holding them back somehow.

But he does not have time to dwell on such things now. Grantaire looks as if he wants to bolt, his hand twitching towards a glass one of Les Amis left behind, and Enjolras reaches out to steady him. Grantaire does not shy away, but he does tense, and Enjolras lets his hand drop quickly from his shoulder. “You died next to me. You didn’t need to. You never believed in anything we were doing. You could have run, I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

Grantaire smiles at him. Enjolras recalls that Grantaire is always smiling, but he never noticed until now that his smile does not often reach his eyes. Not until now, when it is sad. Enjolras would see his gaze light with happiness, but it is Grantaire who speaks first. “I believed in you. I loved you.”

Enjolras had expected the declaration. He is often oblivious to amorous emotions, but he is not stupid. Grantaire died with him, when he could have lived, and Enjolras is not ignorant to what that meant. But that does not stop the sharp intake of breath he takes before he speaks again. “And do you still?”

Grantaire finally meets his eyes, and Enjolras doesn’t know what he sees there, doesn’t know if it makes him happy, or uneasy. “There will never be a time when I do not love you, nor have I lived a life where you were not the light of it.” Grantaire says, and Enjolras feels his mind go momentarily blank; as if it were sliding along ice, with no traction, and nothing to hold onto. It’s terrifying, but he also feels an overwhelming rush of _something_ , both warm and comforting. He wants to curl up in that warmth, let it wash over him and accept the way Grantaire feels about him, but there is something niggling at him.

Grantaire just now did not sound like he was referring to living only two lives. Enjolras only remembers now, and the Revolution, but perhaps he has lived more. And if he has, if they both have, why doesn’t he remember them? And why does Grantaire? Was he kind in them? Did he accept Grantaire? Who else was there? Were Combeferre and Courfeyrac? Enjolras doesn’t know if he’s lived more lives than he remembers, but he’s sure that any he’s lived, any that were worth living, wouldn’t be without them. Enjolras has questions, so many questions, but Grantaire confessed that he loved Enjolras in every life that he has lived, and it seems cruel to ask him about it now, as if there is an implication that none of those lives matter, as if Grantaire is so easily dismissed and forgotten. 

But he is not, and Grantaire burns as a beacon of hope in Enjolras’ mind, reluctant and inappropriate a beacon as Grantaire may be. “You made me proud, in the end” Enjolras says, and he takes care to maintain eye contact, though Grantaire tries to look away. This, now, this is important, and Enjolras would have Grantaire hear every word. “When I was alone with the dead of a cause that was finished before it began, you stood by me. When it seemed as if our sacrifice was pointless, your courage gave me hope that some day, the people too would rise. I can never do anything to repay what you have given me.”

Enjolras reaches out and takes Grantaire’s hand, an echo of that day on the barricade, but with no National Guardsmen waiting to gun them down, no pressure to do anything but lace their fingers together and brush his thumb slowly over Grantaire’s pulse point. Grantaire does not tense at his touch this time. His eyes look strangely misty, and for the first time in his life, Enjolras has to look away. He speaks, instead, to their conjoined hands. “I have never loved anything but my country and her people. I have never wanted anything for myself, except for a body and a mind that I could give to the betterment of humanity. But I think that I could come to love you.”

Enjolras breathes out shakily, and then looks up again to see that Grantaire is crying silent tears (and how often does Grantaire cry? Is this another thing Enjolras never noticed? How Grantaire can stand to love him, he doesn’t know), but he is smiling, big and genuine, crooked teeth and all. 

Enjolras smiles back, and reaches up with his other hand to wipe the tears from Grantaire’s face.

\--------------------

This time, they do not die. Not for a very, very long time.

This time they live.

This time they love.

This time they are together. Enjolras and Grantaire, one a prelude to the other, one always proceeded by the conjunction ‘and’. 

Just as they were meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Codename: Raven](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O26qAjcBx8w) \- House of Heroes


End file.
